


Color You Blue

by allmystars



Series: Color Series [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drowning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Favourite Color Fic, Lifeguard Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues, POV Dean Winchester, Police Officer Dean Winchester, Pre-Relationship, Psychological Trauma, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sleep Deprivation, Suicide Attempt, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:08:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23940583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allmystars/pseuds/allmystars
Summary: It’s something like... the ocean, but more like the sky. That’s Dean’s favorite color.But not quite.He doesn’t know the exact shade, but it isn’t the color of the cornflower or even the deep navy of the night. When he sees it in his mind’s eye, though, it shines with a billion stars.***It's been weeks since Dean first saw it; that specific shade of blue.He's not sure where or when, but he needs it. It's his favorite color, and never seeing it again is the worst thing he can possibly imagine.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Color Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1943227
Comments: 18
Kudos: 133





	Color You Blue

**Author's Note:**

> I should be writing Prince Of My Heart, I know, but this just came out instead. It's a bit different than what I'm used to, but I kind of love it. 
> 
> What do y'all think? Let me know!
> 
> Happy May 1st! Stay safe and healthy!

It’s something like... the ocean, but more like the sky. That’s Dean’s favorite color.

But not quite.

He doesn’t know the exact shade, but it isn’t the color of the cornflower or even the deep navy of the night. When he sees it in his mind’s eye, though, it shines with a billion stars.

The walk down to Razor Bay offers Dean so many possibilities for the _right_ blue. The good kind of blue that brings inexplicable calm, but right now, he’s anything but. His stomach flip-flops and irritation burns in his throat with the not-quite-there feeling. It’s just out of his reach—just out of sight.

Honestly, he doesn’t blame Sam for kicking him out. He’s been a real pain in the ass, he knows, but he just... he needs to know where it comes from, where he saw it first, and how he can find it again.

Except, the sidewalks are a grungy, dusty brown, and the storefronts aren’t much different, with their dirt-smeared siding and empty windows, there’s nothing bright about them, and certainly nothing blue.

The answer spins around and around in his mind, evading him, and it’s so beyond frustrating that Dean lashes out, kicking the ground beneath his feet and sending stones flying into the dry, patchy grass of Perkins Park.

Kids swing and play, laughing and shouting like they don’t have a care in the world—secure in knowing exactly what their favorite color is. They’re dressed in greens and yellows and reds and purples, but only one wears blue.

Not the right blue.

Dean picks up his pace as the road slopes into a steeper angle, and it’s a straight shot to the bay—he can see the deep, shimmering water from here—but he can already tell it’s not right, even in his beat-down, exhausted state.

Instead of turning back, though, he pushes on, feeling the burn in his shins as his feet slap the concrete, sliding forward in his boots as his arms swing by his sides. If he keeps his heart kicking, maybe he’ll be able to find it before the heat takes him out.

It’s not quite summer—too early for the tourists, but the seasonal shops are opening their doors—but the sun beats down on Dean like it’s the middle of August, sweat beading at his temples and sliding down his face.

This whole day just feels too bright. It’s like red, orange, and yellow swirling together in a whirlwind of heat, anger, and impatience. The burn of all the wrong colors has his skin prickling and temper rising.

Maybe Dean should’ve just put on his shorts like Sam told him to, but come on, _Dean Winchester_ doesn’t do shorts. He’s a pants guy—a _too cool to be hot_ kind of guy—and today shouldn’t be any different, but his favorite color isn’t _red_.

It’s sweet, breezy, soothing _blue_ , but no blue he’s ever seen more than once, and the worst part is that he can’t even pinpoint when that one time _was_.

The dream he had days ago showed it so clearly and purely that his heart aches for it now when it’s gone from his mind and the world around him—stolen with the hot light of _red_.

Even the bay breeze is hot. Thick with the weight of humid, water-saturated air—so suffocating Dean can hardly breathe around it, and it drags him into the depths of his frustration.

Irritation mixes with his growing despair as the sidewalk beneath his feet flattens out, leaving his toes aching in his boots, slipping and sliding as blisters form at his ankles and the soles of his feet.

Even the seagulls’ cries pierce his ears, spearing his brain with sharp, white-hot pain. Dean rubs at his temples, his stomach rolling in time with the crashing waves over the blinding yellow sand of Razor Bay beaches.

The water isn’t blue enough. Or, maybe it’s too blue, he’s not sure, but what he does know, is it’s not _right_.

The locals crowd the beach, taking advantage of the early heat before the tourists start popping in, but Dean barely notices them as he heads right for it—that big, not-quite-right pool of blue.

First, it’s just his toes, and he doesn’t even feel it through his thick leather boots, so he goes deeper until it sluices over his ankles and soothes the burning sores seared into his skin by _red_.

The deeper he wades into the bay, the better he feels—the silky water flows over him, up his legs and around his hips, cooling his fevered skin and soothing the pounding in his head. It weaves itself between his fingers, flowing like ribbons and inching over his palms.

Dean lets his eyes close as his head falls back, a sigh whispering from his lips as he sinks lower. His stomach, then his torso, then chest and shoulders, until he’s submerged to his lips. His ears fill, silencing the world of everything but his own thumping heart and the ragged push and pull of his lungs.

The icy relief is so strong, he doesn’t notice how the current pulls at his limbs, lifting his feet from the shifting sand.

He doesn’t feel himself being carried deeper as the waves swell higher until they’re crashing over his face.

Then, blue is danger. It’s not calm, and he’s choking on it, breathing it in, and coughing it up.

He fights it, arms flailing and feet kicking, but blue drowns him.

It drags him under, tosses him around, and doesn’t dare to spit him back up for even a moment’s rest.

Blue will kill him, just like Sammy said it would.

_It’ll drive you nuts, and you’ll lose your mind for something that you’re not even sure exists._

_Lose sleep._

_Lose focus._

_Lose peace._

The blue burns his lungs, filling them and killing him, but somewhere in the back of his lost mind, Dean knows it’s because _this_ blue is the _wrong_ blue.

The right one will save him—the right blue _always_ saves him.

With a sputter, a cough, and a gasping breath, Dean lives again—his back to the hot sand and nothing but blue in his blurry vision.

The _right_ blue. His favorite blue—twin, sparkling-like-stars, deep, _endless,_ blue eyes. All the words for blue, staring into—

“There they are—show me those green eyes of yours.” It’s the blue; he’s talking to Dean. And Dean’s breathing—he’s _living_.

“Angel-blue.” With the red at his back, and the blue, all he sees, Dean lets himself sleep—for the first time in a week, he sleeps.

“Dean, is it?”

Dean startles, torn from his thoughts by a deep, rumbling voice. He turns to face it, but every muscle in his neck, burns. Dean doesn’t fight it now, surrendering to the fire as he turns back to face the waves that almost took his life no more than a week ago.

“Depends who’s asking,” he says, deciding it doesn’t depend on who’s asking because he’s not in the mood to talk. He pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them as the sand shifts under him—soft and warm as always.

“It is, then.” The guy obviously doesn’t take the hint and lowers himself down beside Dean. He lets his legs splay out in front of him, long, tanned, and toned, but Dean doesn’t allow his eyes to wander any further than his thighs before he drags them back to the crimson horizon. “You like the sunset?”

Dean huffs out a laugh, startled by the stupid question—of course not—but he doesn’t look away from it, either. “No, I hate it.” He shakes his head, irritation bubble over as orange snuffs out the blue. Before Dean can stop himself, the words spill from his lips in a steady, confessional stream. “Red—I hate red. And orange. Yellow, too, actually. I hate them all.”

But they still burn inside him—hot rage and bitter pain. They stole his blue from him, and he’ll never forgive them for it.

The stranger sits in silence for a moment, probably debating Dean’s mental state and whether or not he can slip away without being noticed, but when he speaks again, the rumble of his voice feels like a bubbling stream. “What’s your favorite color, then?”

A flash—just a spark, but it’s there. _His_ blue.

It chokes him up, stuffing a burning lump into Dean’s throat to cut off his voice. Tears sting his eyes, and he hates that red can take this from him, too.

“Blue,” he whispers—soft and broken. Like the fractured wing of a baby sparrow, it barely flutters from his lips before dying in the sand. “One I’ve only seen twice in my life, and then never again.”

“What’s it like,” the stranger asks, almost too quiet for Dean to hear, but when the meanings behind the sounds reach him, Dean hesitates. If he tells this man _his_ blue, he’ll think Dean’s crazy—maybe have him committed—or worse, the sanctity of his favorite color will be lost, by sharing it with another.

Maybe he’ll never see it again?

_Or, maybe you will?_

Either way, the words tumble out of him before he can stop them. “It’s like… I don’t know—it’s this perfect, _clear_ blue. Not quite the sky, but not water, either. It’s darker than a robin’s egg but lighter than midnight blue.”

He doesn’t even realize his hands are shaking until he wipes at his lip, but they are—so bad he’s not sure if it’s from the heat, or the cold, or the gut-wrenching fear of losing his peace.

“Not quite purple enough for forget-me-not, and too alive to be the dull blue of periwinkle.” He takes a shuddering breath, trembling to his core, but the stranger doesn’t speak, or leave, or falter in his calming presence. “I’ve never seen it before a few months ago, and I haven’t seen it since last Thursday, but I feel it everywhere. I feel it inside me.” Dean taps a finger over his heart, feeling it’s steady beats against his rib cage. “Angel-blue, I call it.”

“Look at me.”

Dean scowls at his fingers, seeing nothing but the angry red cuts marring their tips as he debates whether or not he should do it.

“Come on, _look_ at me.”

Maybe it’s the bubbling-stream quality to his voice—the way it calms Dean—but he _does_ look, and when his eyes meet the strangers’, it’s like his heart stops and sighs all at once.

Dean’s breath catches, freezing in his chest as tears flood his eyes—cool, soothing tears. “Angel-blue,” Dean whispers because there it is; in the eyes of a stranger with dark, mussed hair and a strong jaw. As tanned as his legs had suggested, and wearing a bright red sweater with the word _Lifeguard_ written in white across his chest.

The stranger smiles, his full, pink lips curving as laugh-lines fan out at the corners of his eyes. “I prefer Castiel, but whatever works for you.”

“I—yeah,” Dean stutters, shaking his head as he trips over his words—at a loss for what to say. “Yeah, Castiel—sorry.” God, he’s so _stupid_. His blue—it’s right _there._ But, surely, Castiel thinks he’s unstable? He won’t want anything to do with Dean, and Dean will lose his peace. He’ll lose it forever, and he has no idea what he’ll do without—

“Dean?”

He drags his eyes back to Castiel’s, forcing down his panic as the beautiful man in front of him, smiles.

Castiel doesn’t say anything for a moment, just staring into Dean’s eyes with a quiet kind of intensity. “Sea-foam… but not quite,” he muses, leaning closer, and his fingers sink into the sand beside Dean's hip as Dean does the same. “Your eyes—they’re the most beautiful green…”

“Castiel.”

“Dean?”

“You saved my life.” It’s not a question, but Castiel nods, anyway.

“I did.”

“Thank you,” Dean whispers, feeling an understanding fill the space between them. It’s like a warm breeze snuffing out an icy chill, and Dean’s been so cold for so long.

“Thank _you_ ,” Castiel returns, in a fragile, almost awe-filled voice, but Dean doesn’t get it. The understanding is gone, and confusion fills its place. “For saving mine, Officer Winchester.”

It hits Dean like a tsunami—the memory of the first time he saw that angel-blue—and drags him down to a late-evening call about a man on a bridge, right at sunset, threatening to—

Sad eyes—hopeless, and tired, and looking at him like he knows Dean doesn’t have the answers. Dirt-smeared cheeks with over-grown stubble and too thin to be anything but malnourished.

 _That_ man—the one Dean thought would never get down from the ledge with his life—is _this_ man? This beautiful, life-saving man?

“It’s good to see you again,” Castiel whispers, but Dean’s too shell-shocked to speak. This man single-handedly changed the course of Dean’s life forever. How do you tell someone that? How do you deal with it, yourself?

Dean hasn’t got a clue, but he knows he wants more time with the man with angel-blue eyes—the man named Castiel, who saved his life twice. “I want to see you again,” he says, and it's the only sure thing he knows.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Twitter at [allmystars_i](https://twitter.com/allmystars_i)  
> ~  
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> ~  
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